Wren
by willowtree113
Summary: Wren is an artist. She draws and paints from her very soul, forever carrying a piece of charcoal in her pocket. She wasn't meant to be a warrior, but circumstances told otherwise. Forced into a role she was never meant to play, Wren must fight as she joins the fellowship on a journey that will test her loyalty, love, and very will to live.
1. Notes

Hi!

This is my Lord of the Rings fan fiction, Wren. I'm new at this, so the writing will probably suck, but I'll try my hardest.

A few things to keep in mind as you are reading this story:

\- Aragorn never fell in love with Arwen (even though it is the best love story in the history of love stories.)

-The Sindarin elvish will be close to accurate, but some parts may be off. I will include translations.

-Hopefully updates will come often, but until I make up a schedule I can make no promises.

\- And lastly, though probably most importantly, I have changed Aragorn's timeline a bit to fit with the story. I love they way Tolkien originally wrote it, but I just couldn't make it work with what I wanted. Aragorn's Dúnedain village was attacked and burned when he was 10, not 3, and he and his mother fled to Rivendell from there. His father was still killed in the battle by orcs.

I really stink at editing, so any suggestions or fixes you can find are more than welcome.

Thanks!


	2. Wren

~Prologue~

 _Red. The flowers will be red. Nestled into the cracks of the field, they will surely brighten up the image._

I take my brush and dip it into the red paint, a mixture of berry dye, water, and animal fat. Each color of the rainbow sits in a little jar on the shelf, every one hand-mixed with care.

My brush slides easily over the paper, each stroke simple and familiar. I feel at peace. The troubles of the world do not matter, nor do the chores I have not finished, or even the excitement of a new little sibling on the way. All that matters is the art pouring on to the page.

"Wren!"

I sigh, of course, there will be no tranquility whilst there is work to be done. I slip my work under the bed, being careful not to smudge any paint. Standing up, I brush off my apron and make towards the door.

"Wren!"

Outside of the confines of the small, two–roomed home shared between my parents and I the village is bustling. Dúnedain are everywhere. Women and young children walk happily through the markets. Some stand behind stalls, selling everything from woolen blankets to freshly–baked bread. Others weave in between tables in search of particular items. Little boys and girls scamper about, playing tag and enjoying the bright sunshine. In the distance you can just make out the shapes of men, and some women. They are training now, always prepared.

"Wren!"

To the left, a boy the age of ten, like me, comes running through the crowd. Shoulder–length brown hair bounces up and down in the wake of his study gate.

"There you are! Come on, come outside! You aren't really going to spend the entire day hold up in there, are you?" He asks, finally catching up to me.

"No, but I at least thought I could get a good hour in before someone came looking." I mumbled. He gave me a disapproving look, silently admonishing my introverted nature.

"Wren, you need to get some fresh air. Come on, watch the Rangers train with me," he coaxes.

"Aragorn!" I groan as he grabs my arm and pulls me across the village. The air holds a slight breeze, whipping my own mousy hair across my eyes. Aragorn just laughs and picks up the pace, practically running through the markets.

We make it to the training grounds and sit on the side, watching as the Rangers clash their swords together. Aragorn stands suddenly and walks towards a rack of wooden swords, generally used to teach young swordsmen. He takes two and turns back to look at me, holding one out for me to take. I grasp the hilt and use it to pull myself up from the ground before gripping it fully.

"Ready?" He asks, getting into a fighting position.

I smirk and meet his eyes,"Of course."

Despite my faux confidence, Aragorn wins easily, him being much better trained than I.

"You can do better than that! At least put some effort into it," he complains, smiling the whole time. I raise my sword and ready my feet, preparing for a re-match, but it never comes.

We hear shouting, loud, shrill screams the echo through the air. I streak my head upwards in the direction of the noise. I woman stands frozen as she points into the woods, bundle of bread laying at her feet.

Out of the forest emerge horrifying creatures. Gray, sallow skin hangs limply off of stocky bodies. Faces full of lumps and old scars snarl mouths filled with razor–like teeth. Yellow eyes bead out from under enlarged foreheads.

They are orcs, ruthless killing machines.

Fear courses through my veins. We are under attack. I cannot defend myself. I am going to die.

"Run Wren, run and don't look back," Aragorn shouts over the ensuing chaos. The once training Rangers are now forming ranks in preparation to defend the village. I see Aragorn's father, Arathorn, at the head of the small militia. The strike forward and fight the orcs with intense fervor, but they are greatly outnumbered.

I turn back to Aragon and see him running back towards the houses.

"Aragorn, wait! Where are you going?" I called. We need to get out of here. Why in Eru would he run towards the danger?

"I need to find my mother!" He responds, continuing to hurry deeper into the town. There are already people fleeing. Woman and children are escaping into the forest. The orcs have begun to burn down houses with flaming brands, cutting down any who dare to stand in their way.

"No, Aragorn, we need to run. Come on!" I'm desperate now. He must survive to see a new dawn.

Aragorn turns his head and we make eye contact, a picture I will never forget. Steely, gray eyes burn into mine. They glisten with fear and worry, but underneath that there is courage. He had courage. Aragorn turned and ran into the fray. I never saw him again.

That day was the worst in my life. I lost so much. My father was killed, or at least I think he was. I've not seen or heard from him since.

As I fled the scene I saw my mother. She was running too, cradling her pregnant stomach. She too died, I tried to reach her. An orc came from the side so quickly that there was no time to move. The sword was plunged into her chest, and she fell. She died right on the spot, along with her unborn child.

I ran deep into the forest, wandering for two days until I finally came across another village. I learned how to fight. If there was ever to be another attack I wanted to help as I could not the first time. I was adopted by a kind couple, but they were human, and I was of the Dúnedain. They would die and I would live on. So I ran away at the age of twenty-one.

Now I live as a wanderer, with only the clothes on my back and a single bag. Small pots of paint constantly clash against each other in my pack, and two small brushes lay atop them. A piece of charcoal always sits in my pocket, a reminder of what used to be. Art is my only escape.

Sometimes it can be sold for a few coins, but the greed of men keeps them from offering me what I know my pieces are truly worth.

And so I wonder still, haunted by the memories of my early life, and taunted by the possibilities of the future. The silvery stare of Aragorn forever etched into my mind.


	3. Chapter One

~Chapter One~

The starving fire crackled to life as I slowly fed it dried grass and tinder. The flames reached higher until they were just licking the rabbit cooking on a spigot above. I watched it for a moment before leaning back against a tree.

It was late at night, or perhaps very early in the morning. Try as I might sleep would not come to me, so I checked my traps in the surrounding forest and happened to come up lucky.

The forest was calm. Bugs sang in the trees and the crisp night air slowly crept in around me. My cloak and hood were wrapped tightly around my body as I rested peacefully, but the tranquility was soon shattered.

Figures came crashing through the underbrush, disturbing my meditative state. My eyes shot open. I scrambled to my feet and, with the little time I had, grabbed onto a low branch hanging off of a tree nearby. I hoisted myself up until my features were completely shrouded in shadows and I had a clear view of the intruders.

Three stout forms hurtled towards my campsite. They were short, no larger than children, and sported thick, blonde curls atop their heads.

Hobbits. They must be, I thought to myself.

The hobbit slowed down upon drawing nearer to my fire and seemed to glance at it cautiously, but still they crept forward.

"Who's fire is this Merry? And who's bag? I wonder if they will share any of that delicious looking rabbit," One of the curious hobbits voiced to his companion.

"I don't know Pippin, but I don't think they'll be too friendly once they realize we've found their camp," another hobbit stated wearily. The last of the three turned his head to the trees behind them and peered into them as if searching for a fourth member of the party.

While none seem to carry any ill will, and hobbits were not known to be hostile, at all, they were still in a position to steal my food and my belongings. I did not want to harm the poor creatures, so scaring them off seemed like the best option.

Deftly, I unsheathed a dagger from my belt and positioned my arm to throw it. The blade whistled through the air like an arrow and hit the desired target, a tree behind the three travelers. It just so happened to pass directly over the head of the quieter hobbit.

I jumped out of the tree meaning to chase them away. The hobbit shrieked and stared at me in horror as I advanced upon them. They began to stumble backwards, but before I could get any closer my arms were yanked behind my back as I was pulled against someone. A sword was placed against my neck, forcing me to angle my head upwards. My captor restricted all movement, and it would be a lie to say I wasn't afraid.

"Who are you? What do you have against these hobbits?" The gruff voice of the man behind me spoke. It was gravelly and low, but held a certain air of command. This man was important, that much I could tell.

With a sword pressed to my throat, I could not speak 'less I wanted a slice in my trachea. The man, understanding this, turned me around to face him, but still kept the sword pressed to my side. Fortunately, my hood kept him from seeing my face. Unfortunately, facing the stranger I noticed how much shorter I was. He seem to tower over me, probably around 6 and 1/2 feet tall. I, on the other hand, was more than a foot shorter at 5'5". Add that together with his stronger build, and if we were to fight, he would easily overpower me.

I gulped in fear before allowing my eyes to travel higher. The man wore clothes of thick leather, typical of anyone accustomed to the ways of the forest. His hair was dark and fell in

shoulder-length waves. His face was dirty and held some stubble, not in a disgusting way, but in a "I've-been-traveling-for-days-and-haven't-had-the-chance-to-clean-myself-yet" kind of way.

My gaze traveled even higher to meet his eyes. They were silvery and hardened, corrupted by years of tragedy and troubled courage. The strength of which shown steadfast from beneath-

Wait.

I knew these eyes.

"Aragorn?"


	4. Chapter Two

~Chapter two~

The familiar male glared down at me upon hearing his true name. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He was traveling with three innocent hobbits when all of a sudden a cloaked figure attacks them, and then it is discovered that said cloaked figure knows the secret name of a secret man who is probably not supposed to exist except to a number of people. Yeah, I probably shouldn't be all that shocked.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?" He growled out underneath his breath. The question was meant for only my ears to hear, so I assume the hobbits knew him under some sort of alias.

Unknowingly, the inquiry also confirmed any lasting suspicion that the man before me was, in fact, Aragorn. So overcome with joy at the discovery of my childhood best friend, I acted out of pure instinct.

Not really my best decision.

"Aragorn! It's really you! You're not dead!" I exclaimed, tears beginning to slide down my cheeks. Aragorn, confused, loosened his grip on my arm for just a moment, but it was long enough for me to break free of his grasp and go for a hug.

Again, not really my best decision.

Aragorn, seeing an incoming attack, raised his knife in defense and sliced a shallow cut across my arm.

I instantly recoiled, now clutching my injured limb. He turned me around and pushed my back up against the tree. Repositioning his dagger at my neck, he snarled and gritted his teeth. Apparently deciding that I wouldn't give him a straight answer, he gripped the top of my hood and practically ripped it off my face. I tilted my head up to meet his eyes again, my tear stained face now on full display.

Aragorn swept his stare over me for a moment, before catching my steady gaze. He didn't move immediately, but I could see the realization cross his face. Unlike my enthusiastic reaction, Aragorn lowered his arms and backed away slowly, his figure losing all signs of hostility. He dropped his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, as if processing all of the possible options. I watched as he finally looked up again and stared deep into my eyes, uttering a single word.

"Wren?"

I nodded slowly, a smile stretching across my lips and tears of sheer happiness streaming down my face once again. Aragorn took a tentative step forward, before crossing the distance between us in seconds, quickly encompassing me in a desperate embrace.

Through our exchange the night had lightened, and as we clung to each other, after 77 years of separation, the sun rose over misty peaks in the distance. Dawn shed light over the valley, chasing way the shadows of the haunting hour.

And in my heart, Hope returned.


	5. Chapter Three

~Chapter Three~

The familiar male glared down at me upon hearing his true name. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He was traveling with three innocent hobbits when all of a sudden a cloaked figure attacks them, and then it is discovered that said cloaked figure knows the secret name of a secret man who is probably not supposed to exist except to a number of people.

Yeah, I probably shouldn't be all that shocked.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?" He growled out underneath his breath. The question was meant for only my ears to hear, so I assume the hobbits knew him under some sort of alias.

Unknowingly, the inquiry also confirmed any lasting suspicion that the man before me was, in fact, Aragorn. So overcome with joy at the discovery of my childhood best friend, I acted out of pure instinct.

Not really my best decision.

"Aragorn! It's really you! You're not dead!" I exclaimed, tears beginning to slide down my cheeks. Aragorn, confused, loosened his grip on my arm for just a moment, but it was long enough for me to break free of his grasp and go for a hug.

Again, not really my best decision.

Aragorn, seeing an incoming attack, raised his knife in defense and sliced a shallow cut across my arm.

I instantly recoiled, now clutching my injured limb. He turned me around and pushed my back up against the tree. Repositioning his dagger at my neck, he snarled and gritted his teeth. Apparently deciding that I wouldn't give him a straight answer, he gripped the top of my hood and practically ripped it off my face. I tilted my head up to meet his eyes again, my tear stained face now on full display.

Aragorn swept his stare over me for a moment, before catching my steady gaze.

He didn't move immediately, but I could see the realization cross his face. Unlike my enthusiastic reaction, Aragorn lowered his arms and backed away slowly, his figure losing all signs of hostility. He dropped his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead, as if processing all of the possible options. I watched as he finally looked up again and stared deep into my eyes, uttering a single word.

"Wren?"

I nodded slowly, a smile stretching across my lips and tears of sheer happiness streaming down my face once again. Aragorn took a tentative step forward, before crossing the distance between us in seconds, quickly encompassing me in a desperate embrace.

Through our exchange the night had lightened, and as we clung to each other, after 77 years of separation, the sun rose over misty peaks in the distance. Dawn shed light over the valley, chasing way the shadows of the haunting hour.

And in my heart, Hope returned.


End file.
